If You Insist
by Alchemine
Summary: Molesley's received a troubling letter from Baxter. Who better to vent to about it than a harassed and reluctant Thomas? A companion piece to "Thieves," this is what the boys are getting up to at home while Phyllis is tangling with criminals in New York.


As an ex-employee of Downton Abbey, Molesley should, in theory, knock at the tradesmen's entrance and wait to be let in when he wants to visit, but after years of working in the house, he can't get out of the habit of walking straight through the kitchen door and wandering about as he pleases. This is a constant annoyance to Thomas, but even as butler, he seems to have no power to stop it. He's spent some time thinking on what it reminds him of, and has decided that Molesley is like a persistent neighbourhood cat that comes in and makes a pest of itself until someone gives it a bowl of milk.

On this particular morning, he's in the butler's pantry, taste-testing a new wine for the family dinner table, when Molesley's tall form appears at the doorway, dressed in a flat cap and a blue waxed jacket with raindrops spangling the shoulders. As always, he gives the impression of stooping slightly, even though he isn't, and Thomas opens his mouth to tell him to stand up straight before remembering that Molesley's posture is no longer any of his concern.

"Has Miss Baxter been writing to you from New York?" Molesley demands without bothering to say hello first.

"That's between Miss Baxter and me, don't you think?" Thomas levels an icy stare at him, then relents. "Yes, I've had a letter and a postcard from her. Why?"

"Has she told you about the little girl who tried to rob her?"

Thomas considers himself mostly immune to surprises at this point in his life, but this catches him off guard. "Not yet. What little girl?"

Molesley comes further into the room, reaches into an inner pocket of his jacket, and removes a folded sheet of pale écru writing paper covered with Phyllis's neat, careful script. It's a sight that will forever take Thomas back to sitting on the front steps of his childhood home with fourteen-year-old Phyllis beside him, a crisp white bow in her hair and her skirts newly lengthened to just above the tops of her high buttoned shoes, showing him how to make joined-up writing. _That's very good, Tommy. You'll be better at it than me soon. Here, I'll do you another one to practise on._

He shakes off the memory and puts out a hand for the paper, but Molesley hesitates, holding it just out of reach.

"Oh for Christ's sake, Molesley, I'm not going to read the soppy parts. Just show me what you're on about."

"Well, all right."

With earnest fussiness, Molesley scans the page and then folds it back on itself to reveal only the relevant passages. Thomas watches him, noting the flush that's spread up his face to the thin spot on top of his head, and wonders if he and Phyllis have actually been to bed together. He's fairly certain they haven't: Phyllis is still gun-shy from _l'affaire_ Coyle, even after six long years, and Molesley seems like the type who waits until marriage, then does it once a month with the lights out and apologises afterward. Thomas personally thinks it would do them both the world of good just to set aside an evening, fuck wildly and get it out of their systems, but no one asks him for his opinion on these things.

Seeing that Molesley is finished with his foray into origami, he reaches out again to receive the folded letter, and Phyllis's words leap right off the page, exactly as if she's in the room and speaking to him.

 _Something odd happened this morning and I don't know what to think about it. I was on my way to the shops and a little girl deliberately knocked into me on the street and tried to lift my purse in the confusion. I caught her before she could take it and tried to impress upon her what happens to thieves, but she wouldn't listen. I finally gave her a few coins and promised to buy her lunch tomorrow if she'll only come and speak to me again. She is so terribly thin and dirty, I wanted to cry just looking at her. I understand why she might feel as if she needs to steal, but if she's left to go on this way, I know all too well where she'll fetch up. I'll already have met her again by the time you read this, of course, but I like to think you're wishing me good fortune in my efforts anyway._

Thomas stops reading and looks up at Molesley, who is waiting anxiously for his reply.

"Well, that sounds like Miss Baxter to me. We both know she has a soft spot for hard-luck cases, don't we?"

Molesley frowns, not having missed the insult to himself in that statement. "Yes, she's very kind, but don't you think this sounds..." He seems to hunt for the right word. "Dodgy?"

As it happens, Thomas is less than enthusiastic about the idea of Phyllis trying to reform a light-fingered street urchin, but he's not about to admit that to Molesley, whose pearl-clutching attitude about the whole thing sets his teeth on edge.

"I don't know if you've noticed, Molesley, but Miss Baxter is a grown-up woman. If she's decided to take on some little kid as a charity case, there's nothing either you or I can do about it, especially as she's not even in the country at the moment. Unless you're planning to buy a steamer ticket and go over there to stop her, you may as well relax."

"Don't think I haven't thought about it," Molesley says, and Thomas can see in the rebellious set of his usually mild face that he's telling the truth. Much as he's sure Phyllis would enjoy a visit from her unlikely paramour—perhaps a posh New York hotel is just the setting they need to finally get over their inhibitions and do what they both want to do, he muses—he's equally sure she wouldn't appreciate being prevented from helping one of her hard-luck cases. Heaven knows not even his own best efforts were able to stop her trying to save him.

"Well, don't," he says. "Look, I was intending to write to her tonight anyway. I'll remind her to be careful, all right? That's all I can do."

"If she needs money, though," Molesley says. "I don't think she'd accept it from me, but you—"

"She's there with her Ladyship," Thomas points out. "Even if she gives this girl every penny she has, she'll be well provided for until she gets home."

"Still," Molesley says, and Thomas sighs.

"Yes, I'll mention that too. And I'll put some of my own money in as well, if she needs it." He folds his hands on the desk in front of him and gives Molesley a pointed look. "Now if there's nothing else, will you please let me get on with my work? Just because you have six weeks off in the summer now, it doesn't mean the rest of us do. Go prune your roses or something."

"In the rain?" There's a half smile on Molesley's face, and Thomas can't tell whether it's amusement at the idea or pleasure at having successfully recruited his help. Either way, it irks him.

"All right, don't prune the roses, just—just be somewhere else. Good day, Molesley."

"Good day," Molesley says. "And—thank you."

As soon as he's gone, Thomas looks at the quarter-inch of wine he's poured out as a sample, shakes his head, and fills the glass up to just below the rim. Between Molesley haunting his pantry and Phyllis apparently courting trouble in America, he feels he's earned it.


End file.
